The Letter
by FireOpal
Summary: She’d got the idea from him. And, by the end, it wasn’t just a letter some small piece of paper stuffed in an envelope with cold, empty words on a cold, empty page. By the end, it was The Letter – a thing all of it’s own. DRose. Spoilers 'Doomsday'


**Comments** -I can't believe they actually did it... I can't believe it. But here's my little attempt to stop myself sobbing my heart out and come to terms with _'Doomsday' _and I hope you like it (and it's not too clichéd). Reviews welcome, even if they are only to sob over Rose :D

**Summary- **_She'd got the idea from him. And, by the end, it wasn't just a letter -some small piece of paper stuffed in an envelope with cold, empty words on a cold, empty page. By the end, it was The Letter – a thing all of it's own. D/R._

* * *

She'd got the idea from him. After he had tried to leave her behind the first time, sending of all things a hologram to explain, she'd thought of her own way. After all the millions of times they'd been in situations that were so close to separating them without even a chance to say goodbye, she wasn't going to let that happen. Even if she didn't get to see him, he should at least have something.

So she wrote the letter. Sometimes it got changed – new paragraphs added, drafts rewritten – it moulded as time passed and they were still together. She left it on her pillow every time they went out, and she put it in her wardrobe every time she came back, before showering or getting out of muck-covered clothes. By the end, it wasn't just a letter, some small piece of paper stuffed in an envelope with cold, empty words on a cold, empty page. By the end, it was The Letter – a thing all of it's own. There were creases on it were leaning against her leg (there had been nowhere else to lean) had nearly caused the paper to rip. There were smudges, because her penmanship wasn't the best, and occasionally in the flurry of writing she accidentally leant on wet ink. There were tears, where she couldn't stop herself.

She knew he'd read it though – in her heart, she knew he'd go into her room one last time, even if he never did again. She could see it, if she closed her eyes. He would hover by the door uncertainly, then he'd open the door, but not step over the threshold. Those eyes of his – such a beautiful expressive brown, much more so than her own – would roam over the familiar things, and then spot it lying neatly against her pillow. She could see it so clearly that it hurt when her fingers brushed the paper as she dropped it into place, and she had to steel herself before leaving the room, flashing a grin at nothing to keep control.

And, standing, her eyes full of stinging tears, brine-water tasting salty against her lips, she stared into the space he'd been just seconds – so few seconds before that she imagined, image though he'd been that she could _smell_ him so strong, so much to almost kid herself that he'd be back, come to get her any how he could. But it was empty, even as she willed him back. Once her will had been strong enough to wipe out fleet upon fleet of Daleks, and now, just when she wanted to see him one last time, she was denied.

His words hung on the air still, echoing round her mind as she filled in what his eyes, his tone, his tears had said that he could not. And she hoped he'd find the letter.

* * *

Though she'd never know it, it took him longer than she'd hoped to find it. He'd had to deal with that business of the runaway bride – did the universe have no pity, to stay the torments it threw at him for a few precious minutes? – before he could rest. Even then, it took him hours to work up the courage to go near her room.

He hovered outside the door, his hand brushing the surface. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that she was in there, brushing her hair and getting ready for another adventure. Or she'd be sleeping, her soft blonde hair fanning her peaceful face, looking all the prettier for the lack of make up. Any dream was better than the cold reality – an empty room, a tidy bed, her clothes packed neatly in drawers. Still…

He opened the door slowly, glancing around the room with a familiar eye. He smiled slightly as he caught sight of a familiar t-shirt draped across a chair, the union flag emblazoned across it. Then it was gone, replaced by the moisture in his eyes that gleamed in the light from the corridor. Leaning against the doorframe, he sighed. Oh Rose.

Wait, what was that? Frowning, he pulled forwards, hands coming out of his jacket pockets as he spotted something white on the soft blue pillows. Moving quickly, he picked it up, turning it over quickly in his hands, his hearts beating out a deafening rhythm in his chest.

_Doctor._

Just one word on the top, as if the writer had known instinctively that the reader would know where it was – was he really that predictable? – and yet that word was written, as if for the sake of propriety. He recognised Rose's handwriting immediately, though it could not have been anyone else's, sitting here, now. His fingers shook so hard that it tore the paper as he lifted the flap, and he had to still them quickly, pulling his hand back and taking a deep, shuddering breath. Then, not much calmer but his hands more steady, he tried again, and carefully pulled out the paper.

Rose had never been a particularly literary person (he berated himself mentally for the past tense – she was alive, she was safe), so he was surprised to see a veritable sheaf of papers. They sat in his hands like the most precious and most ordinary thing in the world that they were. After all, it was just paper and ink – most ordinary things in the world. But this was Rose, her scent, her spirit, her words imprinted so fragilely.

Unfolding the paper gently, he smoothed the creases out, moving slowly to sit on the edge of the bed as he read. He got the feeling he would need to sit before he fell down. Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he forced himself to read slowly, to savour every word and commit it to memory instead of scanning it like he usually did.

_Doctor_

_I feel a bit daft writing this, but I suppose it's worth it, because if you're reading this then I'm dead or something. Unless, of course, you've just snuck into my room for no apparent reason and found this. But I'm going to work on the basis that you're reading this because I can't tell it to your face for whatever reason…_

He continued reading, smiling a little at her choice of words or reminiscences, closing his eyes briefly every so often to keep control. He noted the dried watermarks that were her tears and he touched them reverently, feeling the paper rippled underneath his fingers where they had fallen and wishing that they were wet and new because that would mean she was there.

His hearts stopped as he read the last lines though, and even when he closed his eyes against the tears that were finally unleashed, he could see her face when she said those same words.

_I love you._

He remembered his own daft, sad reply, so woefully inadequate. He remembered looking at her, knowing he was seeing her for the last time, and the sudden realisation that _he would never see her again_ had made him risk it, risk everything. _Rose Tyler-_

Of all the times for the rift to seal. Three little words that he wanted to say, could finally say when they mattered so much.

_I love you_.

But there, just after her name, just below the kisses and the faint brush of lipstick, there was a postscript.

_P.S. As I've left, that means you're alone. I don't care if you don't want to see anyone else ever again – this is my last request. Don't be lonely. Go find yourself a new friend, maybe someone who will love you as much as I do. And don't ever be lonely again, my Doctor. My beautiful angel, my Doctor._

_And don't forget to smile. :D_

When he'd finished, he just sat there, staring at the paper for a long moment. As he sat, seconds turned into minutes, but it was all immaterial as his thoughts swirled painfully, memories vibrant as he committed them to his heart. Then he stood slowly, his face immobile as he moved, the letter still in his hand. Carefully, he folded it back into its envelope and placed it in his inside pocket, close to his hearts. It nudged against the envelope of another letter from another time, but this was infinitely more precious than even that, so he placed Rose's letter closer to him as he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

A last request eh? He guessed he owed Rose that at least. So he smiled (albeit a little shakily). Then he went to the control room and set off, randomising the co-ordinates to take him anywhere. And maybe, if he had any luck, someday the two universes would collide again, and he could fall into her waiting arms.

But until then? He had a universe to save.


End file.
